LYING AT A REVEREND FRIEND'S HOUSE ONE NIGHT, THE AUTHOR LEFT THE FOLLOWING VERSES, IN THE ROOM WHERE HE SLEPT. I. O Thou dread Pow'r, who reign'st above! When for this scene of peace and love, II: The hoary sire-the mortal stroke, To bless his little filial flock, III. She, who her lovely offspring eyes IV. Their hope, their stay, their darling youth, Bless him, thou God of love and truth, V. The beauteous, seraph sister-band, Thou know'st the snares on ev'ry hand, VI. When soon or late they reach that coast. THE FIRST PSALM. THE man, in life wherever plac'd, Who walks not in the wicked's way, Nor from the seat of scornful pride Casts forth his eyes abroad, But with humility and awe Still walks before his God. That man shall flourish like the trees. But he whose blossom buds in guilt And, like the rootless stubble, tost For why? that God the good adore A PRAYER, UNDER THE PRESSURE OF VIOLENT ANGUISH. O THOU Great Being! what thou art Surpasses me to know: Yet sure I am, that known to thee Are all thy works below. Thy creature here before thee stands, Yet sure those ills that wring my soul. Sure thou, Almighty, canst not act , free my weary eyes from tears, But if I must afflicted be, To suit some wise design; Then man my soul with firm resolves, THE FIRST SIX VERSE OF THE NINETIETH PSALM. O THOU, the first, the greatest Friend Whose strong right hand has ever been Before the mountains heav'd their heads... Beneath thy forming hand, Before this pond'rous globe itself Arose at thy command; That pow'r which rais'd and still upholds This universal frame, From countless, unbeginning time Was ever still the same. Those mighty periods of years. Which seem to us so vast, Appear no more before thy sight Than yesterday that's past. Thou giv'st the word: Thy creature, many- Thou layest them, with all their cares, As with a flood thou tak'st them off They flourish like the morning flow'r, TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH, In April, 1786. WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, For I maun crush amang the stoure To Thy slender stem; spare thee now is past my pow'r, Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet, The bonnie Lark, companion meet! Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet! Wi' spreckl'd breast, When upward-springing, blithe, to greet The purpling east. |